


Not a Fucking Sleepover

by aeli_kindara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Hunting, F/F, Gen, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 21:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13532775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara
Summary: Dean and Krissy are not having a sleepover. Regardless of what Sam might say.





	Not a Fucking Sleepover

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Natalie. I made you a thing. (Guys go read [this](https://www.hypable.com/wendy-hanscum-wayward-sisters-supernatural-women/) of Natalie's on Krissy, Josephine, and other awesome SPN women that we need back in our lives.)
> 
> Bit of Dean/Cas and Krissy/Josephine if you squint.

“You’re being a baby.” 

“You’re a baby,” Dean mutters, turning his gaze as far up toward the ceiling as he can manage. It’s not like he’s squeamish, he just doesn’t like neck wounds, okay, and it’s hard to fucking _breathe less,_ as Krissy commanded him, when she’s poking a goddamn needle through the skin at the base of his throat.

“Quiet,” she says, and makes another stitch.

The whole situation is a mess. Just a milk run of a hunt, Dean flying solo, vamp stupid enough to run right onto their home turf. He tried to bleed a high school kid in Smith Center, for Christ’s sake — she got away with a couple scratches and a weird story for the local PD — and by evening, Dean had tracked him down to the abandoned grain elevator outside town. Not his ideal location for a solo hunt, too many rooms to clear, but Sam’s in Lawrence for some research, a microfilm appointment he’s been waiting on for weeks, and Cas is off doing Cas things. Vamp this dumb, he figured, going it alone is a calculated risk.

Besides, it’s barely twenty minutes from the bunker. This is _personal._

Anyway, big place, cautious approach, and things were going fine until Dean rounded a corner and some scared fourteen-year-old swung a machete for his throat.

Then there was a familiar voice yelling _“Liam, no!”_ and the blow sort of getting blocked by Dean’s own machete and sort of by his collarbone, and a whole mess of events that wound up with one dead vamp and Dean leaning against the wall with Krissy’s flannel pressed to his neck, listening to disjointed story about how she and Josephine and this kid they took in were hunting a vamp nest, and one got away, and they tracked it here, but Liam’s still real new at this, kinda jumpy, and they’re really sorry —

That’s around when the kid burst into tears, hiding his face against Josephine’s shoulder. She and Krissy exchanged a weary look a little beyond Dean’s woozy interpretation. Somehow, it resulted in Josephine taking the kid off for, for ice cream or whatever, and Krissy driving Dean’s own damn car to the bunker to patch him up.

The cut itself isn’t that bad, too low and front-on to do serious damage, but it does slash straight across his windpipe like a gruesome second smile. His collarbone throbs with a deep bruise, though Krissy says it isn’t broken. She also says he has a concussion, from when he fell, and confiscates his whiskey when he tries to take a pull.

Instead, she tilts the bottle up to her own mouth, amber in the lamplight. “Hey,” says Dean, “how old are you?”

Krissy raises her eyebrows. “Twenty. And if you think you can get away with your _incredibly glass house_ there, you must be even dumber than you look.”

Which, yeah, okay. “You don’t know,” Dean mutters, feeling gingerly at the completed line of stitches across his neck. When he tries to lift his head, pain forks through them. He stops.

“I’m judging you a little bit for even having a fifth of Jack in your —” She looks around. “What is this? TV room? Field hospital?”

It’s a little bit of both, Dean supposes. They got the couch because Sam was sick of Dean invading his room to watch TV, and the bigger flatscreen because Sam was sick of not having a TV in his _own_ room, and the recliner because recliners are awesome, come on. As it turns out, they’re also great when you’re laid up and in need of some quality downtime, and eventually more and more of the med supplies migrated in here for simplicity’s sake. They’ve even got an IV rig if they need it, a Christmas gift from Alex; at this point, Krissy’s pretty much got it right.

“This room is awesome,” Dean corrects her, adjusting his neck. The recliner is so damn comfortable. If he can just find a position where the stitches don’t pull too much, he could fall asleep right here —

“Oh, no you don’t,” says Krissy. “You’re concussed. You’re not allowed to sleep.”

Dean glares at her. “They say it’s fine unless you’re —”

“Yeah, well, _I’m_ saying you stay awake, so you stay awake.” She’s got a look in her eye, one Dean recognizes from his own endless childhood negotiations with a recalcitrant Sam. As if she can follow his thoughts, she adds, “Where’s that brother of yours, anyway?”

“Nerding out at the KU microfilm archives,” Dean answers automatically, realizing too late he’s lost the battle. “Not something you want to see, trust me. He won’t be back ‘til late.”

Krissy snorts. “So I guess I’m stuck with your sorry ass until he is.” She flops back on the couch, taking another pull of whiskey with a visible grimace, and reaches for the remote. “Got Netflix on here?”

Well. Dean’s a little annoyed, but he’s not above bragging about his entertainment setup. “WiFi-enabled,” he says proudly. “We got Netflix, Amazon, HBO —”

Krissy fixes him with a look. “Great,” she says, deadpan, and turns back to the screen in a way that says _oh my God, you’re old_ so loudly that Dean honestly feels a little personally affronted. Before he can object, though, Krissy’s on the Netflix home screen. There’s a Guest profile over on the right, but instead of scrolling over to it like any civilized person, she hits select on Dean’s.

“Hang on,” says Dean, “that’s —” But it’s too late.

It’s not like Dean’s recommendations don’t have plenty of cool movies. He watches Breaking Bad, okay, he watches westerns and classic Paul Newman, but there’s nothing wrong with sometimes wanting a little comfort food, and —

“Frozen,” says Krissy, incredulous. “Netflix thinks you want to watch _Frozen._ ”

Before Dean can formulate an adequate response, she’s scrolling down, and her face lights up with growing glee. “Tangled — Inside Out — Mulan —”

“Hey,” says Dean, because there’s no salvaging it now, “Mulan is a classic.”

Krissy turns to stare him down. Dean’s neck is at sort of a weird angle for it, but he does his best to look unimpressed. “Mulan is a classic for _my_ generation,” says Krissy. “Mulan came out when I was a _baby._ How old were you, exactly?”

“That’s,” says Dean, “not the point, and anyway —”

“No,” says Krissy, grinning evilly now. “Concussion test. When were you born?”

Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “January 24th.”

“January 24th, in the year…?”

He grits his teeth. “Nineteen seventy-nine.”

“Nineteen seventy-nine,” Krissy repeats. “So you would have been, what, nineteen? Spend a lot of time watching Disney movies as a nineteen-year-old, Dean?”

“Least I didn’t spend all my time being a smartass to my elders and betters,” Dean fires back.

“Yeah, like I believe that.”

She has a point. Sort of. “Let’s watch it, then,” says Dean, “if you’re so cool. Watch it and tell me Mulan doesn’t count as a classic.”

Krissy grins like a shark. “You’re on.”

\---

When Sam gets home, they don’t hear him come down the hall, too busy blasting I’ll Make a Man Out of You.

They’ve already finished watching once; now they’re skipping around to their favorite scenes. Dean’s singing along under his breath — he’s pretty sure achieving actual volume would hurt — and Krissy’s chiming in for the _force of a great typhoon_ bits, collapsing into laughter again on the verses. She’s got a nice voice, actually, and she’s got the excuse of being maybe a little drunk, which Dean doesn’t, but hey, he’s possibly concussed, that has to count for something.

“Oh my God,” says Sam, from the doorway. “You’re having a _sleepover._ ”

It’s true that Krissy’s sprawled out on the couch, one pillow tucked under her head and another hugged comfortably to her chest. And that she’s scrounged up blankets for both of them from the linen closet. She raises her head to glare at Sam. “Your brother has a concussion. I’m keeping him awake.”

Sam looks like he’s fighting a grin. “Well,” he says, “if you need someone to spell you —” He trails off.

“I’m good,” says Krissy, with studied nonchalance, and flops back onto her pillow.

“It’s not a fucking sleepover,” Dean calls after Sam. He can hear him chuckling down the hallway.

“Fuck it,” he says to Krissy. “Wanna do Honor To Us All?”

\---

“I used to feel like that, kind of,” Krissy says.

She’s flopped over onto her belly, chin on her armrest where she can look at Dean. Her eyelids look a little heavy, face softer with a smile.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean agrees.

Krissy’s eyes crinkle. “What,” she asks seriously, “like a lotus blossom? Or a perfect porcelain doll?”

Dean flips her off, rolling his eyes. “No, you know. _Help me not uproot my family tree._ All that.”

She sighs, digging her chin deeper into the armrest. “Yeah.” And then, staring vacantly at some spot on the floor, “Aiden went off to college, but me and Jose never really — it wasn’t for us. I dunno if my dad would be proud of what I’m doing. Or if he’d —” She breaks off with a shrug.

Dean can’t help but laugh, lightly, little more than a twitch of his lips and an amused huff of air. “I know what you mean.”

“And then we get kids like Liam,” Krissy adds. “We saved him, and he wanted to be in this, but — he’s so _young._ He’d be in bad shape without us, for sure, no family left, but I can’t help thinking sometimes — what if we’re only making his life worse?”

Dean’s an idiot for not thinking of it before. “Far as Liam goes,” he says, “there’s someone who could probably give you some help with that. Jody Mills. Sheriff of Sioux Falls, sort of — well, she’s known a lot of kids like him. She’d take him in. Give him some stability, a home where it’s okay to talk about monsters, hunt them even, but — you don’t have to, I guess.”

“That might be nice for him.” Krissy yawns.

“She’d welcome you, too,” Dean adds, realizing his blunder. “If you wanted. You and Josephine.”

“We’re doing all right,” she says quickly. Then, more quietly, “But — thanks. I mean, seriously, thanks. It’s just, Jose and I, we’ve got — kind of a rhythm now, I guess? Something like that. It just — fits.”

Dean thinks of his own improbable family unit, of Sam, of Cas. “Yeah, I get that.” He studies the TV screen, still paused on Mulan. “Well. You ever need — want — a place to go, you’re welcome here anytime.”

“Thanks.”

Krissy’s gazing vaguely at a spot on the floor, eyes focused somewhere beyond it. For a while, she doesn’t speak. Dean’s on the verge of starting to nod off when she asks, in almost a whisper, “Do you ever feel like there’s — something more?”

Dean mentally shakes himself awake, studying her. She looks unexpectedly young, all of a sudden, a vulnerability in the set of her mouth. “What kind of a something more?”

“I mean — with someone. Like — you spend all your time together anyway, but you’re still not sick of them, or even when you are, you still… can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. I guess. And, like, making them happy just —” She laughs sharply, cutting herself off. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” The answer comes out automatically, like a reflex, and it startles Dean enough to distract him into letting himself think of Cas.

He usually steers his brain away from that topic. It’s not like it’s — a _thing,_ it’s just that, yeah, it’s pretty much like Krissy’s describing. He’s never just _wanted_ somebody, so constantly and unquestionably, never felt their absence like a persistent hole in his side, never wondered what they’d do or say in almost any situation when they’re not there. Not like this. And — well, Cas has his own life. His own things to do. Dean’s not gonna mess with that.

He hasn’t texted Cas yet since the hunt, though. He fumbles for his phone, and types, _Some kid tried to decapitate me today. Thought I was a vamp. All good._

“We’re talking about _girls,_ aren’t we,” Krissy grouses. “This really is a fucking sleepover.”

Girls. Yeah. “Just don’t try to paint my nails,” Dean says, “and we’ll call it good.”

“You’re probably all right to sleep. If you want,” says Krissy. “I’m —” she yawns, hugely — “ _tired._ And I wouldn’t judge nail-painting too quickly. Jose made some stencils for Enochian sigils that let you punch five times above your weight.”

That’s — unfairly awesome. “Goddamnit,” says Dean.

“I’ll show you in the morning,” Krissy promises. She rolls over, and leans down to retrieve the remote from the floor, and switch the screen off. Then she burrows in on herself under the blankets, muttering, “ _Sleep._ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean sighs. “Freaking nail-painting. All right. Good night, you fucking terror.”

“‘Night,” Krissy agrees in a distant mumble.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his lap. _I’m glad you’re all right, Dean,_ it says. _I miss you._

And Krissy’s too far gone to see, so Dean lets himself grin like he wants to as he types back, _Yeah, you too._

He turns off the screen and settles back into his chair. The phone is still held warm in his hand as he closes his eyes and gives himself over to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I'm on an injured!Dean + Disney kick this week. I apologize for nothing.


End file.
